


after work activities (or, lying by omission)

by wave_of_sorrow



Category: Actor RPF, The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit (2012) RPF
Genre: Casual Sex, F/M, M/M, Multi, Open Marriage, Open Relationships, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 13:00:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wave_of_sorrow/pseuds/wave_of_sorrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Graham is in an open relationship with his wife and sex among the cast is no big deal, and then there's Richard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	after work activities (or, lying by omission)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [himlayan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/himlayan/gifts).



> Written for [this prompt:](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/3393.html?thread=5967681#t5967681)
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> _There's an unspoken, carefree air of casual sex among the cast. Graham is a participant, having been propositioned to several times (and doing some propositioning of his own). This goes on for quite a while. One day, a cast member he's sleeping with shows surprise when Graham mentions off-hand that Richard is part of his sexual rotation. Said cast member apparently approached Richard more than once, and was always turned down. Graham gets curious and asks another cast member about Richard, only to get the same answer (and can Graham help him out in that department, because he'd really want to tap that)._  
>   
> 
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> _Graham confronts Richard about it when they next meet for the night, and Richard's evasive at first, but eventually reveals that he doesn't really do the whole "multiple partners" thing. When pressed, he admits that he really doesn't do the the whole "casual" thing either, but he doesn't expect the same of Graham. It's just who he is, and this arrangement was perfectly all right for him._  
>   
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> _It's not perfectly all right for Graham, though, but in what way and what happens after are completely up to the future filler._  
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> 
> This really, _really_ got away from me and turned from the semi-lighthearted, short-ish porny thing I'd planned into a long, winding exploration of what loving more than one person entails and all the complications and conflict that comes with it. Graham's wife, Gwen, features in this quite a bit because it _is_ about polyamory and not including her would have felt odd to me. I've tried my best to treat her respectfully and mean no offense, and you can basically regard her as an OC if you like because except for her name I know nothing about her and made her up as I went along.

It doesn’t happen regularly and they don’t all do it, and they never do it all together, but most of them end up shagging each other at one point or another during filming.

It starts when James announces Aidan needs to get laid and Aidan complains that he’s surrounded by men, most of whom are married, and Graham has to go and put his foot in it by explaining the concept of an open relationship to him. In his defence, in all their defence, there’s alcohol involved and lots of it, but that isn’t quite a good enough excuse for why he ends up fucking Aidan through the mattress back at his place. It also doesn’t quite explain how Dean ends up blowing him after lunch the next week, or how a fair few of them seem to be spending more and more nights in trailers that aren’t their own.

After that, they come to an agreement: what happens in New Zealand stays in New Zealand, and although it is unspoken, it is an agreement no less.

It’s an odd kind of arrangement, and one that quite probably doesn’t make much sense to anyone who isn’t stuck in a foreign place half a world away from their family and friends; for them right now, out here, where everything feels just a little unreal and like maybe it doesn’t have to matter, it almost seems logical.

It’s something to take the edge off after intense training sessions when they’re bursting with adrenaline, and it’s something to help them wind down when the day’s filming leaves them wired, and it’s something to seek comfort in when they miss their favourite mug, the one with the chip and fading colours, where it’s in a cupboard back home.

It’s _fun,_ and for those who participate that’s enough.

*

“Kiss me,” Richard gasps, and given the context and their current position it’s a slightly odd request, though not entirely out of place. He’s sitting in Graham’s lap in nothing but a t-shirt and bouncing up and down on his cock hard enough to make the flimsy trailer wall rattle incriminatingly every so often. His eyes are closed and his mouth open and panting, and when he changes the angle of his hips his brows draw together and the hand braced on Graham’s shoulder tightens. “ _Kiss_ me,” he repeats, and his voice is low and breathless like it so often gets when his prostate is stimulated.

Graham cups Richard’s face in his palm, scratches from behind his ear down the side of his neck just to watch him shudder and tighten with it, and pulls him into a kiss that is wet and sloppy and made awkward by their reluctance to break the rhythm they’ve got going.

When they’re like this it’s Richard doing most of the work, directing the pace and angle and how hard he wants it, but he’s never particularly dominating about it. He tried to explain once, when Graham said he’d be happy to let him on top, that it doesn’t have anything to do with wanting to be in charge: it’s just that he comes harder than in any other position. He looked embarrassed then; now he just looks like he perfectly understands the meaning of _agonizing pleasure._

“Graham,” he says, and it’s groaned into the small space between their lips. He shifts to clutch the back of the couch for leverage and speeds up, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the trailer.

Graham tightens his hold on Richard’s waist and tries to move with him, his own hips bucking up to meet the tight, slick grasp of Richard’s muscles around him. He takes one of Richard’s nipples into his mouth, sucking through the fabric of his shirt and rolling it between his teeth, and it startles him into realising that he’s fully clothed except for his open fly while Richard only divested himself of his shoes and trousers before climbing on top.

It makes Graham groan, and he trails quick, sharp bites up Richard’s throat until he can say into his ear, “You really need this, don’t you?” Richard makes a sound, too soft to be called a growl, and grinds his arse against Graham’s hips on every downstroke. “Couldn’t even wait to get undressed, could you?”

If he expects an answer he doesn’t get one, because Richard is doing that thing, holding his breath and then gasping harshly when the need for oxygen overwhelms him, that means he’s getting tangibly close and is mindlessly chasing orgasm now.

“Graham,” he whines, eyes screwing shut more tightly and legs tightening where they bracket Graham’s thighs. “Gonna come soon,” he tells him, like he honestly doesn’t think Graham knows the signs by now.

He takes Richard’s cock into his hand and squeezes, and they both look down between them to watch pre-come bubble up from the flushed head to trickle over Graham’s fingers.

“Fuck,” Richard says, breath hitching and eyes fluttering shut again as his strokes get shorter and harder.

Graham fists him in a rhythm that tries and doesn’t quite manage to be in synch with Richard’s, but it makes him come anyway: sudden and without warning, wet over Graham’s hand and tight around his cock.

He keeps his eyes closed as he rides Graham through it, an unabashed groan coming from somewhere deep in his chest and his head thrown back. He moans when Graham’s hands move to grip his buttocks and keep him moving, and his softening cock gives a feeble twitch against his own bare thigh.

“Oh,” he says, body curling forward to hide his face against Graham’s neck. “Oh, ow.”

“Sorry,” Graham says, and is startled when Richard stops him from pulling out.

“No, it’s okay,” he breathes against damp skin, like he’s telling Graham a secret. “I want you to come in me.”

Graham groans and curses, and Richard’s hands move under his shirt to scratch over his stomach and chest. “Jesus, fuck,” he grits out and Richard catches the syllables in his mouth. He won’t really come in Richard, can’t with the condom, and between casual hook-ups and the lack of monogamy on both their parts he’s never even entertained the thought, but now he’s hit with the sudden desire to see his semen drip out of Richard’s stretched hole.

It’s frantic and probably uncomfortable for Richard from thereon out, but at least it only takes Graham a few more minutes before orgasm hits him, Richard murmuring, “I love when you come inside of me.”

It wrenches a growl from Graham; how Richard says it like he’s not even trying to be filthy, like perhaps he’s even a bit embarrassed but wants to tell him anyway, and the effect is ridiculously pornographic.

They’re both out of breath and wrung-out as they recover, and Richard slumps against Graham’s chest with a content sigh, his socked feet flexing against Graham’s legs.

“Okay?” Graham asks, rubbing between Richard’s shoulder blades through his shirt, the cotton soft against his palm the way only truly well-loved shirts ever are.

Richard curls in on himself then arches his back in a strikingly feline move, and it makes his inner muscles briefly contract around Graham’s softening cock even as it’s starting to slip out. “Mmm,” he rumbles against Graham’s throat, then sits up a bit to meet his gaze. “ _Very_ okay.”

Richard’s eyes are tired and satisfied, and Graham wishes he’d keep them open during sex but doesn’t think he has any right to ask it of him. They exchange a few lazy kisses, and Richard gets progressively heavier in his lap.

“Ugh, up,” Graham says eventually, manoeuvring them both into standing to deal with the condom to the sounds of Richard getting dressed. “You look knackered,” he says when he’s turned back around.

Richard looks up from where he’s tying his shoelaces and says, “Well, it’s been a long day and it’s late.”

“Not to mention you spent your evening fucking me into that couch.”

Richard clears his throat and goes back to his shoelaces, the tips of his ears turning red, and that’s something that always amazes Graham no matter how many times they do this: how Richard is quite at ease while they’re doing it, but always shy about it afterwards.

“There is that, yeah,” he says, and Graham can’t tell whether he’s still flushed from his orgasm or from embarrassment. “See you tomorrow, then?” he asks as he gets up, and runs a hand over the top of his head like he wants to run his fingers through his hair.

“Still not used to it, eh?” Graham muses, running his own palm over Richard’s newly shorn head, the buzz cut tickling his skin.

Richard huffs out a laugh and looks up at him through his lashes, and it would be a flirtatious move if he didn’t do it with everyone and unconsciously.

Graham grins and pinches his ear, and says, “See you tomorrow, lad.”

*

“Fuck, that’s,” Aidan groans, back arching and legs spreading further apart, “yeah. _Oh_ , yeah.”

Graham would smile at Aidan’s tendency to babble nonsensical syllables when he’s getting close if it weren’t for the cock in his mouth. As it is he settles on taking Aidan deep and then moving back to focus on the tip, rolling it against his tongue and coaxing bursts of pre-come from it.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Aidan says, one hand fisting the pillow under his head and the other uncertainly flexing against the back of Graham’s neck. “I’m, _fuck,_ I’m close.”

Graham pulls off and idly strokes Aidan’s spit-slick cock in his palm to keep him on the edge, and his voice is gravelly when he asks, “Want to finish in my mouth or in my hand?”

Aidan makes a broken sound, cock twitching in Graham’s grip, and says, “Mouth. Mouth sounds good. Yeah, mouth, please.”

Graham suppresses his chuckle at the lack of coherency by swallowing him down again, and when Aidan starts to buck his hips he lets him. Aidan moans when he realises he’s welcome to fuck Graham’s mouth, and it doesn’t take very long after that. A tug on his ear is the only warning Graham gets before spurts of come hit the back of his throat; he’d be startled, except that it’s what Aidan does every time he’s on the receiving end of a blowjob. It’s almost like he’s so far beyond verbal communication at that point that he can’t manage anything more, and Graham finds it ridiculously endearing.

“Feeling better now?” he asks, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Loads,” Aidan says, looking a little sheepish because he knows Graham knows that the only thing that makes him crankier than lack of sleep is lack of sex.

“Good,” he says, patting Aidan’s thigh as he gets up from the bed and heads for the bathroom.

“What about you?” Aidan asks, struggling up onto his elbows as Graham takes off his shirt and throws it in the general direction of the laundry basket.

“Nah, it’s fine,” Graham says, all too aware that falling asleep mid-fuck is entirely possible in his current state of exhaustion. “Between filming and Richard my energy reserves have been well and truly drained.”

Aidan’s face takes on a confused expression, and he says, “What’s Richard got to do with this?”

Graham pauses, knowing that he hasn’t broken any rules because there are none but feeling like he’s overstepped some sort of unspoken line nonetheless. “Well, he’s a bit of a handful,” he says with a helpless shrug, because while it may not be particularly gentlemanly to divulge details he’s fairly sure he’s too old to play at being coy.

“Wait, wait,” Aidan says, sitting up against the pillows and entirely unabashed about his nudity. “You mean you’ve slept with Richard?”

Graham nods, and Aidan lets out a low whistle.

“Man, I’m impressed,” he declares, his eyebrows doing a complicated little movement that conveys mostly surprise. “I’ve been trying to get him to fuck me for weeks.”

Graham frowns, struggling to stifle a yawn. “And he turned you down?”

“Yeah,” Aidan says, and it looks like he’s dangerously close to pouting. “Said he wasn’t into the whole casual thing, so I didn’t take it personally. Now, though.” He lets the sentence hang in the air unfinished, heavy with no small amount of curiosity and perhaps a smidgeon of envy.

Graham shrugs, feeling the painful tightness of his shoulder muscles shift and protest. “Maybe he wasn’t in the mood?” he suggests, knowing only too well what it’s like to have an arm- or lapful of horny Aidan Turner when one is considerably older and only really wants to pass out in front of the telly.

“Yeah, maybe,” Aidan says, curling up on his side with a sleepy sigh. “Or maybe I’m just not his type. Knowing him he’s probably too nice to just say it.”

“Probably,” Graham admits, and Aidan hums wordlessly in response with his eyes already closed. “Planning to sleep here, then?”

“I need a nap,” Aidan informs him, burrowing into the pillows. “At _least_ a two hour nap.”

Graham snorts, and decides to leave him to it. They’ve got the afternoon off for once, thanks to nasty weather interference, and he plans to spend it taking a long, hot shower and then sleeping for the rest of his life or at least until he’s needed on set again; whichever comes first.

He’ll blame it on tiredness later; that it never even occurs to him to wonder about Richard turning down Aidan under the pretence of disliking casual sex when he himself was the one who propositioned Graham a couple of months back.

*

“Wanna fuck?” Martin asks, catching Graham on his way back to the trailer park.

Graham hesitates for a moment; he’d planned to get in a quick workout before heading home, but then it _has_ been an impossibly long two weeks and he’ll be burning calories either way. “Sure,” he ends up saying.

“Brilliant. My trailer’s closer,” Martin replies, and they fall into step beside each other.

There’s something very wonderful about how, with Martin, there’s neither need nor desire for niceties and perfunctory politeness. It’s something Graham’s never really had with anyone else and certainly not with anyone here, and he thinks it’s down to one, very simple fact: they’re both married.

It makes for a wordless, grim kind of comradeship; knowing that the other knows what it’s like to have a wife at home who’s perfectly fine with her husband going off to shag other men. It’s something none of the others understand, who are either single or happily monogamous, and it’s a surprisingly solid foundation for friendship.

They undress themselves without fanfare and skip both kissing and foreplay, and Martin makes himself comfortable on the bed while Graham grabs a condom and a dented tube of slick from where he knows they’re kept. Martin is tight around his finger and huffs out a heavy breath as he’s first penetrated, and Graham stills to give him time to adjust.

Martin impatiently moves his hips, clenching, and mumbles into the pillow, “Don’t be nice about it. Make me feel it.”

“So you can complain about it every time you need to sit for the next few days?” Graham asks, even as he’s shoving three fingers in and his own cock is starting to stiffen. “Not a chance, I heard you grumping at James for all of last week.”

Martin says, “Don’t pretend you don’t get off on it.”

Graham answers by hooking his fingers against Martin’s inner walls as he pulls out, and the resulting choked curse is entirely gratifying.

“Okay, I’m good,” Martin informs him after a second or two more, voice gone a little strained and hips lazily pumping into the pillow wedged under them. “You can put it in.”

“Are you sure?” Graham asks, working Martin’s prostate with the pad of his middle finger just to hear his breath hitch. “You’re still pretty tight.”

“Will you just put your dick in my ass?” he demands, and Graham moves away only long enough to get a towel to put under his hips because he remembers how pissed off Martin was the last time his duvet ended up with come stains.

“If I don’t,” Graham says, using his thumbs to spread Martin open just to see his slick hole twitch, “how hard will you punch me?”

“Very,” Martin says and he sounds impatient and pissed off, which is what he sounds like ninety-nine per-cent of the time so Graham doesn’t read too much into it. “Now fucking get on with it, will you?”

“Alright, alright,” Graham says and rolls on the condom, “since you asked so _very_ nicely.”

“Fuck off,” Martin tells him, and Graham snorts as he picks up the lube again. “I’m warning you, if you use too much lube again I’m making you pull out.”

“Fine,” Graham says, rolling his eyes even as he drops the tube. “Have it your way, then.”

“Thank you very fucking much,” Martin says, biting as ever even naked and asking for Graham’s cock in him.

“But don’t come crying to me if you can’t sit tomorrow,” Graham says, one hand on the small of Martin’s back and the other on his hip as he enters him in one, slow push.

“Don’t flatter yourself, McTavish,” Martin says, and it sounds like he’s gritting his teeth.

Graham doesn’t reply, simply rocks his hips until Martin huffs out another angry breath and then holds him down and fucks him until the bed creaks so loudly there’s hardly any doubt about what they’re doing.

That’s another wonderful thing about Martin: that he doesn’t expect Graham to be considerate or mindful of his comfort, that he doesn’t even _want_ him to be. It makes for some of the hardest sex Graham’s ever had, and there’s nothing nice about it; it’s rough and fast and doesn’t call for foreplay or cuddles, and as long as there’s no marks or bruises absolutely anything goes.

Martin rises up on his knees a little, changing the angle and making Graham groan, and reaches under himself to stroke his cock. “Hurry up, I’ll come soon,” he says, and Graham grits his teeth and speeds up his thrusts.

When Martin comes he stiffens, breath hitching and muscles tightening in spasmodic waves around Graham’s cock, and he lets Graham keep fucking him until he comes as well.

Afterwards Martin always seems calmer and quieter, has less biting remarks to make and doesn’t frown quite as much; today his semi-serene moments are cut short by a knock on the door as they’re getting dressed.

Martin scowls, pulling on his shirt as another knock sounds, and he grumbles, “Alright, alright. Calm the fuck down.”

Graham’s just buttoning his jeans when Martin opens the door to find Richard standing outside, and there’s a very odd moment of silence where he looks from Martin to Graham and back again and then his eyebrows draw together in an expression he’s stolen from Thorin.

“Pete gave me these to pass on to you,” he tells Martin, his voice not quite his own yet. “There’s been a couple of changes.”

“Bloody brilliant,” Martin says, clearly not thrilled as he accepts the revised script pages. “I don’t know why I bother, there’ll be a new one by tomorrow morning anyway.”

Graham chuckles because it’s entirely possible there will be, and Richard’s eyes briefly flick towards him. They’re not really Richard’s eyes, though, not yet; the tightness of his expression, the timbre of his voice, the confidence he’s radiating just standing in the doorway, they all belong to Thorin and not Richard. In another half hour or so he’ll be back to shy, unassuming Richard who is unfailingly polite and kind; until then, he’s the brooding, angry would-be king of a lost home.

He leaves them with a curt nod, and even Martin never has anything sarcastic to say to Richard when he’s still struggling to peel off his character like he’s peeled off the costume and makeup.

They watch him walk to his own trailer, and Martin says, “I wonder what it’s like to fuck him when he’s still in character.”

Graham rolls his eyes but can’t quite keep himself from laughing, and he says, “Not what you’d expect.”

Martin looks at him oddly, and asks, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Graham shrugs, and he has that feeling again: like he’s overstepped some kind of line without meaning to. “Just that it’s different, I guess, from what you’d expect sex with Thorin to be like.” In response to Martin’s deepening frown, he adds, “I suppose it also depends on who your character is, though.”

Martin holds up a hand, closing his eyes for a moment like he’s picturing something in his head, and when he opens them he says, “Let me get this straight. You’ve _fucked_ Armitage? _While_ he was in character?”

Graham says, “Um.”

“You lucky bastard,” Martin says, and Graham can’t quite tell whether he’s amused, angry or jealous. “How the fuck did you manage that?”

Graham can feel himself frown, and he says, “What do you mean?”

“I _mean,_ how did you get him to drop trousers,” Martin elaborates, speaking slowly and clearly like Graham’s a bit dense. “He wouldn’t fuck me when I asked him because he’s not into colleagues with benefits.”

“Oh, really,” Graham says, and something heavy settles uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach.

“Yep,” Martin says, mercifully oblivious to the doubts and questions clamouring for attention in Graham’s head. “Listen, do you think you could help me out there?”

“Help you out?” Graham echoes.

“Yeah, you know, lie to him and tell him I’m actually a nice person and I love to cuddle,” Martin says, and even though it’s clear he’s mostly joking it still makes Graham unreasonably angry.

“I gotta go,” he says, and that’s what he likes best about Martin: he always lets you get away with being rude.

*

“Richard,” Graham says as they pull into his driveway, and waits for him to shut off the engine. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course you can,” Richard says and sounds bemused, and the rustle of fabric as he shifts in his seat seems loud in the quiet darkness of the car. When Graham doesn’t say anything he angles his body further towards him, pressing his temple into the headrest and earning a look from the passenger seat. “What?” he asks, and his voice is low and tinged with vague confusion and no small amount of gravel.

Graham rubs his palms against his thighs and doesn’t know how to say what he means, and Richard reaches over to take one of his hands into his own. He rubs his thumb over the knuckles and drags his nails over the palm in a way that makes Graham’s cock twitch in his jeans and his breath leave him in a sigh, and Richard hums.

“Did you want to come inside,” he says, the amused curve of his mouth as audible as his want, “or stay out here?”

“Richard,” he says again, head dropping back, and before he can say anything else two of his fingers are in Richard’s mouth. His breath hitches and Richard sucks, tongue flexing and teeth digging in even through the barrier of his lips, and for a few moments that’s all there is: the wet sounds of Richard playing with his fingers and the ticking of the cooling engine. Richard moans, and Graham says, “Fuck.”

Richard pulls off and swallows, and the words are cool on Graham’s spit-slick skin when he admits, “I’ve been looking forward to this all week.” He says it quietly, and Graham knows he’s ducking his head right now without having to look.

He can smell Richard’s skin, warm and spicy and a little soapy, every time he moves and he can hear the slightly shallow rhythm of his breathing and the small sound he makes when fingers brush his throat, and the awareness of it all pulses hot along Graham’s spine. They’re cocooned in a bubble of simmering heat and slow seduction, and it feels more like a third date than anything still has the right to feel after all these months.

Graham says, “Do you ever sleep with any of the others?”

The atmosphere goes from comfortably charged to awkwardly tense in a matter of seconds, and Richard says, “What.”

His voice is flat in a way Graham’s never heard it before and their interlocked hands drop to rest on the handbrake, and it’s too dark for him to see Richard’s face and that makes it both easier and more difficult to have this conversation.

“Do you ever have sex with anyone else on set?” he repeats, and Richard is very, very quiet for a moment.

When he does speak his voice is deliberately pitched lower, and it succeeds in sending a shiver down Graham’s spine even as it makes irritation spark in his veins. “Why? Are you jealous?”

“No, Richard,” Graham says, sounding tired, and slips his hand out of Richard’s lax grip, “I’m not jealous. I’m curious.”

Richard inhales and exhales and rubs his chin, palm rasping over stubble, and he says, “Why?”

“Why what?” Graham asks, and it comes out as a sigh.

“Why does it matter?” Richard elaborates, and he almost sounds angry. “You never seemed to care before, so why does it matter now?”

Graham shrugs, and feels a little helpless. “It just does, alright?”

“Actually, no,” Richard says, and Graham wishes he could see his expression now. “It’s not alright. It’s not alright at all.”

“Why are you so upset about this?” Graham asks, and he can’t quite keep the anger out of his own voice. “It’s a perfectly reasonable question.”

“Oh really?” Richard demands. “Is that why it took you fucking _months_ to ask yourself it?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Graham asks, because he doesn’t think he understands.

“Nothing,” Richard says, and he seems to deflate a little in his seat. “Never mind. Let’s just go in and forget about this, yeah?”

He sounds strangely sad and like he really, honestly doesn’t want to be having this conversation, and Graham unfastens his seatbelt so he can lean over and kiss him: neck, jaw, ear, corner of his mouth. Richard’s intake of breath is unsteady and he turns his head so they’re forehead to forehead, and their noses bump.

“I don’t mean to upset you,” Graham says, and surprises himself a little with how much he truly doesn’t.

Richard’s hand finds his again between their seats, and he says, “I know.”

Their lips brush incidentally, and Graham turns it into a brief kiss that Richard softly returns. “I just want to know what’s going on.”

“I don’t,” Richard says, and Graham waits for him to elaborate until he realises that’s his answer.

He says, “Oh.”

Richard sighs and it sounds frustrated, and Graham can feel his forehead crease against his own. “I’m not really one for the multiple partners thing. Never have been.” He’s speaking quietly into the space between their mouths, and it seems that, oddly enough, the smaller the space the easier it is for him to talk. “But that doesn’t mean I mind, because I don’t. I _honestly_ don’t.”

He pulls back a little to look Graham in the eye, and even with the lack of light he can tell Richard’s sincere about what he’s saying.

“Okay,” Graham says, because he realises that he can’t very well get mad at Richard for _not_ sleeping around even if something about it doesn’t quite sit well with him. “I guess I’ll have to disappoint Martin, then.”

It’s meant as a joke to diffuse the last of the tension between them, and instead it does the opposite.

“What does Martin have to do with this?” Richard asks, and Graham, more than ever, feels like he’s crossed an invisible line and irrevocably broken an unspoken rule.

“Nothing,” he says too quickly, and Richard pulls back further until their only points of contact are their hands. “He just said you’d turned him down and if I couldn’t put in a good word for him.” Half of Richard’s face is entirely hidden in shadow and Graham can’t make out his expression at all, and he adds, “I think he was joking.”

“Is that what brought this on?” Richard asks, and his voice has hardened into something that sounds more like Thorin than himself.

Graham shrugs and it pulls their hands apart, or perhaps it just gives Richard an excuse to pull away. “They just seemed so surprised that we’d had sex that it made me curious.”

“ _They_?” Richard repeats, a note of incredulity creeping into his voice, and when he laughs it isn’t much of a laugh at all: brief and bitter, and full of disappointment. “So does everyone talk about me behind my back, then?”

“No,” Graham says, and when he reaches out to take Richard’s hand again he’s pushed away. “Richard. _No one’s_ talking about you behind your back. It just slipped out, that’s all.”

Richard’s snort is derisive, and he turns his head away to look out the window even though it’s too late to see much of their surroundings. “Right,” he says, and Graham doesn’t think he’s ever heard him sound so raw. “It’s just that everyone knows we’ve been fucking.”

“Not everyone,” Graham says, and Richard snorts again. “Just Martin and Aidan.”

“Oh, well, in _that_ case,” Richard says, angry and mocking.

“It’s not like they wouldn’t have guessed it eventually.”

“But they didn’t, did they?” Richard says and when he looks at Graham his eyes are fierce and luminous, and obscured by the gloom his face is unkind and not his own. “You _told_ them.”

“Why does this bother you so much?” Graham asks, because he really doesn’t understand. “I mean, we all know Aidan and Dean are going at it like rabbits and nobody cares. No one even jokes about it. Not even Martin and James and _that’s_ saying something.”

Richard stares at him for a moment, hard and unforgiving, and then averts his gaze with an unhappy scowl.

“It’s just sex, Richard,” Graham says gently, and Richard crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m fairly sure no one thought you were a blushing virgin or celibate even before this.”

“Right,” Richard says, and Graham gets the feeling that there’s nothing he can say to soothe him. “Now they just know what I like in bed, no big deal.”

“It isn’t like that,” Graham insists, exasperated and a little grumpy at Richard for thinking he’d go around sharing this with everyone when it’s something that belongs just to the two of them. “All they know is that we’ve had sex, nothing else.”

Richard stays silent and angry in the driver’s seat, and Graham wishes he’d at least say something.

“I’ve never told you what Adam and I do in bed, have I?” he asks, and Richard shifts in his seat as though uncomfortable. “Or what Martin and I were up to just before you brought over the script revisions the other week, or what Dean likes me to call him, have I?”

When it becomes apparent that he’s actually expected to answer Richard huffs and uncrosses his arms, and says, “No, but I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to know I’m imagining it now.”

Graham wants to make a joke about it but refrains, and says, “They won’t _care._ We’re all adults and it’s just sex; _no one_ cares who’s having it with whom.”

“Yes, you’ve _said_ that,” Richard snaps, and Graham’s a little taken aback by this side of him. “I _know_ that.”

“Then what’s the problem?” he asks, because it makes no sense to him.

Richard sighs and rubs a hand over his face, and he sounds resigned when he says, “Because it’s not.” Graham is confused and Richard turns to meet his eye, and goes on quietly but clearly, “Because it’s not just sex. Not for me, anyway.”

Graham says, “Oh.”

“Look,” Richard says, and his back is straight and his shoulders squared, “I know it’s stupid and I know it’s just me. I’ve always been terrible at having casual sex, because somehow it’s never, ever casual for me.” He pauses, swallows, and seems to try to gauge Graham’s reaction. “I don’t expect anything from you,” he goes on, and the words sound practised, like he’d been preparing for this moment all along. “I like you and I like being with you and I like having sex with you.” He ducks his head, and Graham knows he’s blushing even if he can’t see it, and he ploughs ahead, “This doesn’t change anything.”

Graham says nothing because it changes everything, and he can’t find the words to express that.

They look at each other for a few, quiet moments, and then Richard clears his throat and says, “Maybe I should go.”

“Yeah,” Graham says and opens the door, and Richard looks startled in the sudden brightness of the interior light. “Maybe you should.”

He watches Richard pull out of his driveway and doesn’t know what to feel, only that there’s an inexplicable sense of guilt settling like an iron weight in his guts.

*

They don’t speak again that weekend, neither in person nor over the phone, and when filming resumes on Monday morning that doesn’t change. It’s not that they ignore each other, because they’d never get away with that, but they don’t go out of their way to talk either; conversation consists of _good morning_ and _see you tomorrow_ and nothing much beyond that.

Thorin’s scowl is deeper than ever and Richard, when he’s himself at all, is as self-deprecating and skittish as he hasn’t been since boot camp, and no one seems to know what to do with him.

*

On Tuesday Aidan and James corner Graham before lunch.

“How should I know what’s going on with Richard?” he demands, and belatedly realises that he sounds far too much like Dwalin still.

Aidan raises his hands in a placating gesture, and says, “We’re all just worried and I thought if something had happened he might have told you.”

Graham says, “Well, he didn’t. And why would he?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” James grumbles, rolling his eyes. “You’re boning the guy, McTavish. If anyone knows about it, it’s you.”

Aidan pinches the bridge of his nose, and says, “I thought we weren’t going to mention that.”

James shrugs, unapologetic, and says, “Thought wrong, then, didn’t you?”

Aidan shakes his head and then focuses on Graham again, and says, “Look, I know it’s none of our business. But we care about you, _both_ of you, and we just want to help.”

“It’s nothing,” Graham lies, because he doesn’t think he can put what it is into words.

Aidan looks at James, who says, “Right. But just so we’re clear, if that idiot gets his heart broken I’m holding you personally responsible.”

There’s no real heat or threat behind the words, but it still makes Graham bristle because he’s not the only one to blame here; he’s not the one who lied.

*

On Wednesday he misses Richard.

He misses the lunch breaks when Richard was so deep inside Thorin’s head that he’d hardly speak, and the only people who could get a smile out of him were Aidan and Dean and Ken, and Graham himself, if he was lucky. He misses Richard’s humour: succinct and subtle, and unexpectedly lewd at times. He misses their time alone, too, when Richard was surprisingly bold and demanding, and the sound he made every time Graham kissed the back of his neck before biting down.

He spends half his time being grouchy at people who don’t deserve it, and the other half apologising to them. Adam keeps him company during the afternoon, and Graham suspects he was singled out because being horrible to Adam is like being horrible to a kitten; a kitten with a rather biting sense of humour and startling lack of shame, but a kitten no less.

When filming’s concluded for the day, Adam makes him a cup of tea and watches him drink it.

“You’re an idiot, Graham,” he says fondly, and his smile is wry and his eyes far too knowing behind his glasses.

Graham says, “I know,” and Adam hugs him like he understands how ridiculously awful he feels right now, caught between missing Richard and missing his family and feeling guilty about all of it.

He hates how quickly he longs for people when they’re absent from his life, and he wishes he didn’t get attached to them as quickly as he does either, though mostly he just wishes he didn’t have to see Richard every day.

*

On Thursday, when he gets out of makeup at the end of the day, Martin is waiting for him on the steps leading up to his trailer with bottles of beer.

“Thought we might have a little talk,” he says by way of explanation, and Graham gratefully accepts the offered bottle as he drops down next to him.

“Of all the people I expected to take me aside for some heart-to-heart you weren’t very high on the list,” he admits, and Martin’s smile is a little rueful.

“Yeah, well,” he says, taking a long pull from his beer. “Ian might have something to do with that.”

“Doesn’t he always?” Graham says, and can’t quite keep the weariness out of his voice.

“Bloody method actors, eh?” Martin says conspiratorially, and the arch of his brow startles a laugh out of Graham.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the last of the sunshine and the mild evening air as all around them cast and crew pack up and prepare to head home. It’s comfortable in a way Graham hasn’t felt all week, and of course it doesn’t stay that way. 

“So,” Martin says, and he doesn’t look at Graham. “Are you going to tell me what happened between you and Richard or do I have to guess?” Graham opens his mouth and Martin holds up a hand to stop him. “And please spare me the ‘what do you mean what happened’ bullshit, I really don’t have time for it.”

Graham frowns and rolls the chilly bottle between his palms, and says nothing.

Next to him, Martin sighs and says, “Well, it can’t have been the fucking because it turns out that’s been going on since forever. So I’m going to take a wild guess and say it’s because you finally bought a clue about the emotional part and panicked.”

Graham stares at him, and Martin rolls his eyes.

“I’m not blind, you know,” he says, and sounds vaguely disgruntled.

“Right,” Graham says, and then doesn’t know what else to say.

Martin stays quiet, though, and Graham gets the feeling that he’s being waited out and tries to buy more time by drinking his beer.

“He doesn’t do casual sex,” he says eventually, and looks anywhere but at Martin.

Martin says, “So?”

“So,” Graham echoes, “he’s been lying about what it was we were doing all this time.”

Martin makes a dismissive sound and says, “He didn’t tell you how he feels about you, that’s not lying.”

“Lying by omission is still lying,” Graham insists, and he wishes Martin understood.

“But he doesn’t suddenly want a relationship, does he?” Martin asks, and Graham shakes his head.

“He says he doesn’t expect anything from me,” he says, and proceeds to peel the label off his beer bottle.

“Alright. Let me get this straight,” Martin says, turning towards Graham with a frown on his face. “He’s in love with you but doesn’t tell you and expects absolutely nothing more than what you’re willing to give him and he wants to keep having sex?” Graham nods and Martin seems to mull it over for a moment, then he says, “Sorry, but that’s a bad thing how?”

“Because he’ll want more than what I can give him at some point,” Graham says, and the sun stands low enough to cast a warm orange glow over their surroundings.

“Of course he’ll _want_ it,” Martin says, still entirely dismissive, “but that doesn’t mean he’ll expect you to give it to him.”

“Even if he doesn’t,” Graham says, tired and fed up with the whole situation, “it’s still not fair to drag me into it in the first place.”

“Of course it’s not fair,” Martin scoffs, and stretches his legs out in front of him. “Fairness has nothing to do with it. Life’s not fair. _Love_ isn’t fair. But tell me you’ve never had a crush on someone and kept it from them because you were afraid it would ruin your friendship.”

Martin looks at him expectantly, and Graham says nothing.

“Well, then,” he says, seemingly satisfied that his work is done, and drains his bottle before getting up. “Go and make up with him, because the Thorin we’ve seen this week? Not good.”

“I’m not sure it’s that easy,” Graham says, and Martin stands in front of him.

“I’m not sure you’ve got much of a choice,” he says, and it is blunt but not entirely unkind. “We’ve got a movie to make here; try not to fuck it up. Because it’s not just your own career that’s at stake, and I’d really fucking appreciate not to be remembered as one of the guys who ruined The Hobbit.”

Graham scrubs a hand over his face, and says, “I know.”

Martin makes to leave and then turns back again, and says, “Since we’re on the subject of honesty: have _you_ been entirely honest with everyone involved?”

“My wife knows,” Graham says, defensive and suddenly angry, and the words are difficult to say because he didn’t think he’d ever have to; not with Martin, at least.

“No, I know your wife knows,” Martin says, dismissive again, and Graham can’t see his face with the sinking sun backlighting him. “But this isn’t just about her and Richard, is it?”

“No,” he says, and sounds as tired as he feels, “it isn’t.”

After Martin leaves Graham stays on the steps to his trailer until the sun’s gone down and he’s finished his beer, and he can’t get Martin’s words out of his head because that’s the crux of the matter, really: he hasn’t been honest with himself.

*

On Friday Martin shoots him strange looks all morning and then seems to have some sort of nonverbal exchange with Ian when Graham doesn’t react to them. He hides in his trailer during lunch, where Adam finds him and makes him eat a sandwich, and is the first one to leave when they’re done that evening, and he’s fairly sure he’s doing a piss-poor job of not letting his personal life affect his work.

He calls his wife that night to tell her everything, and then can’t. Saying it would make it real, would be admitting to his own doubts and fears and wants, and he just _can’t._ He tells her that he misses her instead, and if it’s not the whole truth then at least it isn’t a lie.

“Graham,” she says, her voice soft and sleepy like he’s woken her, which he quite probably has. “It’s Christmas in a few months. I’ll be there for that.”

“I know,” he says, and the sudden lump in his throat makes him feel like he’s a kid again, away on his first school trip and calling his mum from a payphone with the money he was going to buy ice cream with because he missed her and she’d make it okay.

Gwen sighs into the phone, and says, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he tells her, and her breathing is deep and even through the faint crackle of static. “I really do.”

She makes a wordless sound and he tells her to go back to sleep, and when he hangs up, much like the little boy from long ago, he only feels worse.

*

On Saturday he brings Martin a cup of coffee while they’re both still waiting for their turn in makeup.

“You were right,” he says, and Martin raises a quizzical eyebrow at him. “I wasn’t honest with myself.”

Martin looks unimpressed, and says, “Only took you eight months to figure it out.”

Graham snorts, even though he’s not particularly amused, and says, “I take it I’m the last to know, then?”

“Quite possibly, yeah,” Martin says, and sips his coffee. “Mind you, though, not everyone knew you were fucking already. I think most of us just thought you were both hopelessly pining for the other.”

Graham shakes his head in exasperated amusement, and the early morning air is surprisingly chilly around them. “Why do I put up with you?”

“Because you haven’t really got a choice?” Martin hazards, and Graham punches him in the arm. “Hate to break it to you, mate, but you’re stuck with us for a good, long while yet.”

“I know,” Graham says, and he doesn’t sound entirely unhappy about it.

“Have you decided what to do yet?” Martin asks, and Graham is oddly thankful that he’s so straightforward about it.

“Not really,” he admits. “I know what I’d _like_ to do, but that’s not fair on anyone.”

Martin rolls his eyes and makes an exasperated noise, and says, “How many times do I need to tell you: life’s not fucking fair.” He scowls, and takes another sip of coffee and seems to soften slightly with the added caffeine. “So, what is it you want?”

Graham focuses on his own cup and toys with the lid, and says, “I want to be with him.” He meets Martin’s gaze then, and he’s very clear about it when he says, “I don’t want to leave my family. Don’t, for one second, think that’s something I want, because it isn’t. Not in the slightest. I love them and I love my wife, but…”

When he doesn’t go on Martin offers him a lopsided smile that isn’t quite happy, and says, “But you love Richard, too.”

Graham takes a deep breath and lets it out again in a long sigh, and says, “I do.”

“And why are you telling me this and not him?” Martin asks with a mock-puzzled expression on his face.

“Because I’m not sure I _can_ tell him,” Graham admits. “I’m not sure how to explain it to either of them, not when I don’t understand it myself. I’m too old for this.”

Martin starts to say something, and is interrupted by Tami calling his name and waving him over. “Listen,” he says as he gets up, and he seems to struggle to find the right words for a moment. In the end he settles on this: “You can love more than one person at a time. Loving your kids doesn’t mean you love your wife any less and vice versa. It’s just different kinds of love.”

“I know,” Graham says, and on a purely intellectual level he _does._

*

On Sunday he sleeps in, and then proceeds not to do much of anything.

*

On Monday he’s come to the conclusion that not doing anything won’t make the situation any better, self-evaluation or not, and resolves to talk to Richard.

When he knocks on Richard’s trailer door, however, there is no answer.

“I’m afraid you’ve missed him,” Ian says as he closes his own trailer door behind himself. “He left rather early today.”

“Oh,” Graham says, and stays where he is.

Ian seems to be fighting down a smile, and asks, “What was it you needed? Anything I can help with?”

“Not really, no,” Graham says, and feels slightly ridiculous for making it an issue at all; he could just call Richard or drive over to his house, but then maybe he’s a bit too much of a coward for that. “I was just hoping to get a quick word.”

“Ah,” Ian says. “So you’ve decided to acknowledge the situation after all?”

There’s no accusation in Ian’s voice, but Graham still feels strangely caught out.

“He’s been quite embarrassed about it, you know,” Ian goes on conversationally, and joins Graham in front of Richard’s empty trailer. “He’s convinced you want nothing to do with him anymore.”

Graham says, “That’s ridiculous.”

“So I’ve been telling him, but I think he’d like to hear it from you,” Ian says, and Graham is quite suddenly hit with how much he _doesn’t_ want Richard to feel like that, dispute or no.

“Can I ask you something?” he says, and Ian gives him an indulgent smile and a nod. “Do you think it’s possible to love more than one person at a time?”

“Yes,” Ian says without hesitation, “I do.”

Graham blinks at him, a little taken aback, and says, “Just like that?”

“Absolutely,” Ian says with conviction, and the corners of his eyes crease kindly. “We love different people in different ways, just as we love them for different reasons and to different degrees.”

Graham doesn’t say anything, and Ian puts a hand on his arm.

“Your loving Richard doesn’t change that you are devoted to your family,” he says and his voice is gentle and earnest, and he has a way of making Graham feel much younger than he is. “In fact, it has nothing to do with your family at all.”

Graham has to smile, and says, “Martin said something quite similar.”

“See?” Ian says, like that’s proof for absolutely everything.

“Yeah,” Graham says, because he’s starting to think he really does.

*

He calls Gwen again a few days later, and tells her everything.

It’s a long and exhausting phone call, and it isn’t made any easier by the fact that they haven’t seen each other in months. There’s some yelling and misunderstandings, and a few tears on her part before he manages to explain himself properly. In the end, though, it’s almost easy: they love each other and miss each other, and they’ll talk about it in person over Christmas.

“I’m not jealous,” she says, and her voice is scratchy from hours of talking. “I’d be a hypocrite if I was jealous.”

“I’ve always been jealous,” he says, because it’s the sort of thing he thinks she wants to hear and because it isn’t completely untrue. “Of every single person you’ve ever slept with.”

She snorts, and it’s a quiet, tired sound down the line. “No, you haven’t,” she says, and the truth is that she knows him better than he knows himself most days. “But that’s okay.”

They’re quiet for a few minutes, the way they might be if they were having this talk face-to-face, and when Gwen speaks again she sounds like herself again: warm and solid and _sure,_ even in the face of uncertainty.

“You know, I don’t think I ever even loved any of them,” she muses, and he can hear the way she’s frowning. “Not the way I love you.”

Graham says, “I don’t love him the way I love you. I couldn’t.”

“I know,” she says, and he thinks that perhaps she really does.

They say goodbye after that, and he’s about to hang up when she speaks again.

“Graham,” she says, and then nothing else.

He says, “Yes?”

There’s a long, long pause where he listens to her breathe and wishes he could feel her heartbeat against his ear, and then she says, “Don’t wait to work things out with Richard on my account. Do it now.”

“But,” he says, and she interrupts him the way she always does when she’s convinced he’s about to say something stupid.

“We’ve been together long enough not to throw in the towel at the first little snag,” she says, and Graham wants to kiss her. “You and Richard, though? Not so much. He’s probably beating himself up over the whole thing and in desperate need of a hug.”

“Gwen,” he says, and then doesn’t know how to go on.

“You won’t pick him over us,” she says, and sounds as certain as she would telling him the earth goes round the sun. “It won’t even come to that.”

“I love you,” he says, because he does and sometimes he forgets just how much.

He can hear her smile against the phone from half a world away, and she says, “I know.”

*

It’s another Saturday night after another long week, and Graham finds himself sitting at Richard’s kitchen table.

“I’m a bit surprised you came by, to be honest,” Richard says as he puts a few used dishes into the sink, and he’s curling his shoulders inward, protective and like he’s trying to make himself smaller.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Graham says by way of explanation, and waits until Richard’s sat down across from him.

He’s come here to get it all out in the open; to tell Richard that he loves his wife because she’s strong in all the ways he isn’t and that his daughter means the world to him, but that he loves _him_ too because he’s sweet and generous and, in his own paradoxical, quiet way, wildly passionate. He means to explain how open relationships work and that what they’ve got between them doesn’t have anything to do with Graham’s family, unless they want it to. He means to say that he gets attached to people too quickly and that it frightens him sometimes, and that he reacted the way he did in the car because it meant confronting his own feelings. He means to say that he’s missed Richard, and that he’s sorry for avoiding him in the first place.

Graham means to say all of that and more, but Richard beats him to it.

“What I said the other week in the car,” Richard starts, and scratches his thigh through his jeans in a nervous habit that tends to surface whenever he feels pressured or embarrassed. “I didn’t mean it.”

Graham stares at him for a moment as his brain tries to process this new information, and he says, “I’m sorry, what?”

“I didn’t mean it,” Richard repeats, and his eyes briefly flick up to meet Graham’s even as his head remains ducked. “Not like that, anyway,” he goes on, and Graham wants to press a kiss to the crease between his eyebrows to make it go away.

“Well, what _did_ you mean?” he asks, and he’s struggling to be gentle in the face of his own emotions.

Richard frowns harder at the tabletop and his thumb plays with a loose thread on the inside of his knee, and his voice is low and rumbling when he says, “I meant that I like you. I like you a lot and I care about you and I,” he clears his throat and shifts, “I enjoy having sex with you very much.”

He sits up a little straighter then, and meets Graham’s curious, confused gaze head on.

“But that’s it,” he says, and it comes out soft and slow, like the syllables are reluctant to leave his mouth.

“What do you mean ‘that’s it’?” Graham asks, and he feels like all he’s doing is repeating Richard’s own words back at him but he doesn’t understand what he’s saying, or at least he doesn’t want to understand it.

Richard sighs and seems to fight the urge to curl in on himself even more, and in the harsh light of the kitchen his face looks pale and his lashes throw shadows like bruises under his eyes.

“I mean that there’s nothing more to it,” he supplies eventually and twists his hands in his lap, and he sounds far too much like he’s reciting well-practised phrases again. “I’m, I was, I didn’t really know what I was saying.”

“You knew exactly what you were saying,” Graham accuses, and Richard rubs his knuckles against the bridge of his nose.

“I didn’t know what I was feeling,” he insists, and the way he says it makes him appear mulish and wavering all at once. “I was confused. I never meant for you to think I was,” he seems to struggle for words for a moment, and his brows contract to deepen his frown, “in love with you. Because that’s not, I’m not.”

“Oh?” Graham says, because he doesn’t really know what else to say to that.

“I,” Richard starts, then stops and deliberately meets Graham’s eye again, and he looks terribly small and out of place in his own home. “You’re one of my closest friends here, Graham,” he says, and the smile that accompanies the admission is a heart-breaking thing to look at. “Actually, you’re one of my best friends _period._ I find it difficult to make meaningful connections with people and I just,” he falters, and the way he speaks of himself is derisive. “I don’t want this to ruin what we have just because I can’t tell the difference between romance and friendship.”

Graham knows that Richard is utilising a blunt truth to support a much bigger lie and he thinks that, if it hadn’t been such a long dayweek _month_ and if he weren’t so tired and Richard didn’t look so sad, he’d call him out on it.

“You’re one of my best friends, too,” he says instead, the words tasting like long-lost innocence and nostalgia, and if it isn’t what he means to say, if it isn’t the whole truth, then at least it isn’t a lie.

“Yeah?” Richard asks, and he looks so relieved and hopeful that it makes something twinge sharply in Graham’s throat.

“Yeah,” he echoes, and it’s easy not to feel guilty when Richard’s smile is all warmth and smoothing forehead and happy lines around his eyes.  
*

“I take it you didn’t work things out, then,” Martin says apropos of nothing, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, when they’re in Graham’s trailer a few days later.

Graham closes his eyes and waits for his breathing to even out and his heartbeat to slow down as the last, tingling traces of his orgasm fade away and his cock softens against his thigh. “What makes you say that?” he asks, and Martin unceremoniously climbs into his lap and puts one of Graham’s hands on his own, stiff cock.

“Well, for one,” Martin says, and nudges Graham into movement, “you basically dragged me in here and my jaw hurts like a motherfucker, so I’m guessing it’s been a while since Armitage sucked you off.”

Graham pushes his thumb against the swollen head of Martin’s cock and flicks his nail against the frenulum, and says, “Very astute. Shall I call you Sherlock from now on?”

“If you do, I swear to god your dick isn’t coming anywhere _near_ my mouth ever again,” Martin threatens, but the effect is ruined slightly by the way his breath hitches when Graham tongues his nipples.

Graham hums in half-hearted acknowledgement, and the careful use of teeth gets him a quiet moan.

“Honestly, it’s pretty obvious you haven’t been getting laid so the conclusion isn’t far-fetched,” Martin says, and huffs when Graham raises a questioning eyebrow at him. “You get ridiculously handsy when you’re horny. Even by your standards.”

Graham muffles his chuckle against Martin’s neck, and adds a little twist around the head to every other upstroke.

“All I’m saying is that it seemed like you wanted to work things out with Richard when we last talked and now you’re here wanking me off, instead,” Martin goes on, undeterred by Graham’s obvious lack of inclination to have this conversation. “Did I miss something? I feel like I’ve missed something.”

“Don’t you ever shut up?” Graham asks, and Martin thrusts into his hand.

“Hey, I just let you fuck my mouth for a good ten minutes,” he says primly, and the hand on Graham’s shoulder tightens when his balls are played with. “ _And_ come down my throat, so how about a little less complaining and more reciprocating?”

“Alright, alright,” Graham says, and bends his head to roll one of Martin’s nipples between his lips as he tightens his fist.

“Fuck,” Martin says, and pre-come slides over Graham’s fingers, “I’m close.”

Graham speeds up his hand and lightly bites at Martin’s chest, and Martin comes on both their bellies with his eyes closed and a low, drawn-out _mmm_ escaping his mouth.

They stay like that for a bit: Graham toying with Martin’s cock to coax a few more, weak dribbles of semen from him and Martin sticky and panting and seemingly content in his lap. It’s quiet and comfortable and in stark counterpoint to every other time they’ve had sex, and it only lasts for a minute or two.

Martin shoves Graham’s hands away and gets up to grab a few tissues, and as they’re haphazardly cleaning themselves up he asks, “Why do you think it’s so easy for us?” Graham frowns, and he elaborates, “Doing this, I mean. Why can we just fuck and not think twice about it?”

Graham pulls his trousers back up and shrugs, and he doesn’t know what Martin wants him to say.

“I mean,” Martin goes on, and he either doesn’t notice that Graham doesn’t want to talk or he just doesn’t care, “why does it work for some of us and not for the others? What’s so different about us that we find fucking around so bloody easy?”

There’s no trace of guilt in Martin’s voice, no hint that he’s second-guessing himself, only curiosity, and that’s more than Graham can say for himself.

He says, “I don’t know.” Then, when he’s put his shirt back on and is slipping his feet into his shoes, he adds, “Maybe it’s because we both know that there’s rules to this kind of thing and aren’t interested in breaking them.” 

Martin looks at him long and hard, so long and hard that Graham’s a little afraid of the words that will inevitably come out of his mouth, but what he says is simply: “You are so full of shit.” There’s neither humour nor accusation in his voice, only blunt truth.

Graham heads home then, and he thinks what he’s appreciated most about Martin these past few weeks may also be what he hates most: Martin understands.

*

Between long days of shooting and the increasing temperatures the holidays sneak up on them quite suddenly, and Graham thinks that’s probably the only reason no one corners him for another talk. Adam still tells him he’s an idiot and Jed’s been offering sympathetic smiles that say he doesn’t understand but wants to make it better anyway, while Martin’s taken to hitting him with rolled up scripts just a little too hard to be friendly whenever he so much as looks at Richard. Richard himself sticks close to Ian and Lee when the cameras aren’t rolling and his conversations with Graham have reverted to the politeness of the first days of boot camp, like lovers who tried to be close without the sex and didn’t quite manage it because that’s what they are.

People are taking sides, unconsciously because of the character they play or whose trailer is closest and deliberately because of who they’re friends with, and the only thing that’s keeping it from messing with the entire production is Pete, who refuses to acknowledge the situation and occasionally shoots them looks that say _don’t even think about screwing this up._ The screwing _around_ seems to have stopped as well, or at least lessened, and Graham can’t honestly say that he misses it very much.

It’s the last evening before everyone’s due to scatter for Christmas break, which naturally means there’s a massive party underway that engulfs the entire studio parking lot and most of the trailer park.

“Trying to get away undetected?” Richard asks, amused, making his way towards the music and inebriated laughter as Graham does the opposite.

“I forgot my phone,” he explains, gesturing to where his trailer is a few metres up ahead, and it sounds like a lame excuse even though it isn’t.

“Oh, really,” Richard says, grinning like he doesn’t quite believe Graham, and this is the first time they’ve been alone in weeks and it feels wrong and right all at once. 

“How are you?” Graham says, and after how close they were all these months it’s odd having to ask that at all.

Richard shrugs, hands stuck in his pockets, and says, “Tired, I guess. And not really looking forward to spending the next few days in airplanes.”

“Oh, right, you’re going back to London for Christmas,” Graham says, and he wonders why he didn’t know that, except that he _knows_ why he didn’t know it.

“Right,” Richard says, and the silence that stretches between them is made awkward by the memory of how they used to be when they were alone together and the knowledge that they can’t be like that anymore.

Graham doesn’t know what to say, and Richard rolls his shoulders and twists his head to make the vertebrae in his neck pop.

“Jesus,” he says with a sympathetic wince, and puts his hand on the back of Richard’s neck to stop him from doing it again because he doesn’t think about it, because he’s never had to think about it.

Richard’s eyes flutter shut and his mouth drops open, and his skin is warm and soft and achingly familiar against Graham’s palm.

“You’ll ruin your back if you keep this up,” he says softly and doesn’t let go, and Richard takes a shaky breath.

Graham briefly squeezes the tense muscles under his hand, and Richard swallows audibly and says, “Don’t stop.”

He says, “Richard.”

Richard’s hands find his belt and pull him in, gently enough that Graham could stay where he is if he wanted to, and his voice is all need and late nights in his trailer with the door locked when he says, “Please.”

Their noses bump and their lips brush, and Graham says, “Richard.”

Their kiss is slow and deep, and Richard’s tongue is hot and tastes like wine and bad judgement. Graham kneads the back of his neck and every touch seems to startle a gasped moan from Richard, and when teeth trace the veins and sinews of his throat his hands clutch Graham’s hips.

“Oh god,” he says, and it sounds so overwhelmed, so much like it’s _too_ much, that Graham pulls back to rest their foreheads together.

Richard shudders and Graham moves his hands to rub his back, and he can’t remember Richard reacting so strongly to touch beyond that very first time they fucked.

“It’s okay,” Graham says, and is suddenly grateful that they’re alone and in the dark.

Richard wraps his arms around him and tucks his head against the crook of his neck, asking for a hug without really asking at all and knowing he’ll get one anyway. He’s warm and clingy and half-hard against Graham’s thigh and he pushes his nose against his throat like a cat rubbing up to a well-liked human, and an unpleasant combination of affection and anger flares up in Graham’s chest: affection for this bumbling, loveable man and unwarranted anger at him for being so terribly loveable in the first place.

They stay as they are long enough for Graham to feel Richard’s heart thud, its rhythm familiar and comforting in ways it has no right to be, and remember how much he’s missed him: his scent and the heat of his skin and the way they feel pressed up against each other like this.

Eventually Richard sighs and pulls back, and Graham takes his hand and squeezes it before the unnecessary apologies can even leave his mouth and he wishes there was a way to fix what’s broken between them.

Richard’s smile is wry and a little lopsided but he returns the squeeze, and says, “I should probably get back.”

“Probably,” Graham agrees, and lets go of Richard’s hand.

Richard turns to leave but hesitates, and he asks, “Did you really come back here to get your phone?”

“Yeah,” Graham says, and it’s such an odd question that it makes him frown. “What did you think?”

Richard looks away and then back again, and he sounds resigned to disappointment when he says, “Doesn’t matter.”

He goes back to the night’s festivities while Graham makes his way to his trailer, and that’s the thing about the truth: sometimes lying would be kinder.

*

Christmas passes in a blur of catching up with everything there wasn’t much time for while filming: sleep, family, television, and doing absolutely nothing. It’s strange being away from everyone Graham’s spent the better part of a year with, but it also feels a lot like a much-needed reprieve.

“Do you know what your problem is?” Gwen says one morning, and their fingers brush like there’s nothing to it as he hands her a cup of coffee.

“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me,” he says, and her hair is messy from sleep and her cheeks are pink from when he woke her with his head between her legs.

“You always want to make everyone happy,” she says, like it’s a flaw and like she loves him for it. “So you give people what you think they need and tell them what you think they want to hear, and the worst part is that you actually _mean_ it.”

Graham doesn’t know what to say, because she’s terribly blunt and terribly unapologetic and her honesty stings.

“You think you’ve done him a favour,” she goes on, and it isn’t a question because she doesn’t have to ask. “You think you’re being kind to him by pretending you’re his friend, but you’re not.”

He still doesn’t say anything, watches her flex her toes against the sun-warmed kitchen floor instead, and the room smells like summer and Christmas and a hundred other contrary things that confuse him and don’t faze her.

She sighs, and says, “Graham.”

He rubs a hand over his face, and says, “What do you expect me to do?”

“I don’t expect anything from you,” Gwen says, and sounds nothing like Richard. “I just wish you’d understand that lying to him wasn’t kind or what either of you needed: it was just easy.”

“I didn’t lie to him,” Graham says, because he knows she’s right but doesn’t want to admit it. “I just didn’t tell him the whole truth.”

“Lying by omission is still lying,” she says, and Graham feels suddenly ashamed to hear his own words unwittingly thrown back at him like this.

“I know,” he says, and the words leave him on a sigh.

She smiles at him over the rim of her coffee cup, and it’s wry and a little sad and not much of a smile at all, really.

*

When filming resumes a lot of the tension seems to have dissipated, and Graham is thankful for it. Richard continues to stay close to Ian and Lee, who make him seem more at ease than Graham thinks he ever did, and Andy takes him under his wing when they aren’t around. It’s not that he doesn’t get on with the rest of the cast, it’s just that none of them really understand what it’s like for him, playing this role, _being_ Thorin, when for most of them it’s just putting on costumes and playing make-believe.

Days and weeks and months pass, and they get away with not really talking to each other beyond inane chatter to fill silences that would otherwise become awkward.

They never talk about the kiss they shared before Christmas and where it leaves them, never acknowledge it at all, and they never spend another minute alone together. And it’s all right, really, because Graham gets to spend a lot of time with Jed and Adam and Stephen, and if he misses Richard then it isn’t enough to make him want to risk what they have now.

*

“Can you believe we’ve only got two months left to go?” Tami says as she carefully peels off the layers of latex that turn Richard’s face into Thorin’s, and Richard makes a vague humming noise in the back of his throat. “You guys must be as glad to say goodbye to wearing all this as I am to applying it.”

Graham looks over at her and her grin is all teasing and how much she loves her job, and he says, “Can’t say I’ll miss it.”

“I honestly can’t blame you,” Tami says, her grin widening, and goes back to cleaning Richard’s skin of glue and stubborn bits of prosthetic that won’t come off.

It’s been a long day and Graham’s more than happy to sit there and let one of the girls from makeup take Dwalin off his shoulders, but the truth is that he _will_ miss this: the long days and exhausting shoots and last-minute script changes and everyone he’s worked with. It’s not the end yet, not really; there’s still more work for the next two films to be done, but after more than a year of being here and knowing nothing else but this, the thought of home feels as alien as the idea of Christmas in summer once did.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Richard twitch, and Tami winces and says, “Sorry. I swear, every time your eyebrows grow back we manage to rip them straight off again with this fucking glue.”

“It’s fine,” Richard says, and his voice is so strained that it gives everyone in the room pause for a moment.

Tami runs a damp cotton pad over his face again, and says, “Okay, all done.”

Richard’s up and out of the trailer without another word, and Tami frowns after him. When Graham’s makeup and prosthetic free himself, she gives him a look that is a strange mixture of _go fix this_ and _don’t fucking hurt him,_ and his answering nod seems to satisfy her.

He finds Richard in his trailer, and even though he’s let inside, Graham feels distinctly unwelcome. He opens his mouth, and Richard interrupts him.

“Don’t,” he says, and his voice is rough and brimming with a kind of exhaustion that goes beyond what a demanding day of filming can bring on. “Just don’t.”

Graham takes a step closer to him with his hands held up in a placating gesture, and says, “Richard.”

“Don’t,” he repeats, and it is a snarl.

“Okay,” Graham says, and when Richard’s eyes flick up to look at him they are not his own and there is iron in his gaze. “It’s okay.”

Richard makes a frustrated, angry noise, and says, “Will you stop being so _bloody_ kind?”

Graham sighs and rubs his eyes, and because he’s tired and because Richard’s losing himself in the anger and delusions of a king who never lived and he doesn’t know how to help him, he says, “I don’t know what you want from me.”

“I don’t want _anything_ from you,” Richard spits, and he’s so tense and wound so tightly that the kiss that follows is sudden and brutal and entirely inevitable.

Richard’s holding Graham’s head between his palms and their teeth click painfully, and they groan into each other’s mouths.

He breaks away, panting, to nip at Graham’s jaw and growl, “Fuck me.”

Graham makes a wordless noise and kisses him again, and it’s more biting than it ever was and Richard’s beard is scratchy against Graham’s face. Richard struggles against him to make him move faster, harder, and his nails dig vicious crescent moons into Graham’s forearms. They take the few, stumbling steps to the bed and Richard drops onto the mattress and rolls onto his belly before they’ve had a chance to take any of their clothes off. 

Graham watches as he pushes his trousers down to his knees to expose himself, and Richard scowls at him over his shoulder and says, “I said, _fuck_ me.”

It’s hard and unforgiving, too little lube and too much pent-up tension, and Richard fairly howls when he’s held down and penetrated. He’s uncomfortably tight around Graham’s cock, clenching and jerking at every thrust, but he bucks back into it all the same. Sweat darkens the fabric of his shirt between his shoulder blades, and he bites the nearest pillow when the sounds he makes increase in pitch and volume.

One of Graham’s hands is tight on Richard’s shoulder while the other grips his hip, and their position is too awkward and they’re too frantic for him to be able to do much. He nudges Richard into changing the angle of his pelvis and shifts his hand from shoulder to neck and squeezes, and Richard comes with a shudder and a pillow-muffled shout.

When Graham comes as well a few moments later Richard moans and arches his back, and his orgasm feels more like it’s draining him than any sort of relief.

He deals with the condom and drops down next to Richard, whose cheeks are red and damp, and all the anger and frustration seems to have gone out of him; it leaves him looking sad and smaller than he is. His face has softened and his eyes are open and vulnerable, and Graham presses a kiss to his forehead because he doesn’t know what to say.

Richard swallows and clears his throat, and his voice is scratchy when he says, “I—“

“Shh,” Graham interrupts him, and runs a hand over his sweaty hair. “It’s okay.”

Richard sighs and lets Graham pet him, and there are questions in the angle of his mouth and unspoken emotion in the hitching of his breath.

“It’s okay,” Graham repeats, a murmur against Richard’s flushed temple, and he isn’t sure if that’s true or if he just wants it to be.

They stay like that until they’ve stopped panting and Richard sleepily toes his trousers the rest of the way off, and Graham pulls the blanket up over both of them. Richard doesn’t move from where he’s still lying on his stomach, but he reaches out to take Graham’s hand and rub his cheek against it.

Graham kisses the spot between his brows that is uncharacteristically, surprisingly smooth and watches his lashes flutter until he falls asleep, and this is the only time they slip up.

*

Filming for the first movie concludes and life goes on, and though they still live in the same city, albeit on the other side of the world now, Richard and Graham see nothing of each other until the premieres start.

“How’ve you been?” Graham asks, once they’ve escaped the media and it’s just the cast and crew coming together to reconnect.

“Good,” Richard says and his smile creases the corners of his eyes, and they are warm and blue and entirely his own. He looks less tired than Graham remembers him and he’s grown the buzz cut out, and his lack of beard makes him look younger and happier and less burdened by the legacy of the warrior he pretended to be. “Really good, actually. How about you?”

Graham thinks about how he’s missed Richard and how he wanted to call him but never knew what to say, and he thinks about how miserable they both were those last months of shooting and how he’d always choose his family, and he says, “I’ve been great.”

Richard’s smile widens, like he’s genuinely pleased to hear that, and he says, “It’s good to see you again.”

“You, too,” Graham says, because it _is._

Richard looks around them, to where Aidan and Dean are laughing at something Adam’s said and James and Martin are gossiping with Ian, and his smile turns wistful and fond when he says, “I’ve missed this.”

Graham wants to say that, yes, he’s missed this, too: standing near enough to smell the cologne Richard only ever wore in the after work hours and see his pupils contract when sunlight dapples his face, hearing his voice again like it sounded before everything became so very messy and feeling that aching pull on his heart, like a tug in Richard’s direction. He wants to say that he’s sorry and that he wishes things had been different, that perhaps they’d met under different circumstances or that they’d both been more honest with each other. For one, mad, impossible moment he wants to say _I love you._

“I’ve missed it, too,” Graham says instead, and if it isn’t everything he means to say, if it isn’t the whole truth, then at least it isn’t a lie.

They’re joined by some of the others then and they hug like they didn’t just do it already on the tarmac for the cameras, and it’s as if all the tension and awkwardness that was constantly making them vaguely uncomfortable on set has simply evaporated with time and distance.

They’re back in Wellington, back at the beginning like none of them fucked each other and like Graham and Richard weren’t stupid enough to fall in love, and the thing about the truth is this: it isn’t simple and it isn’t easy, and sometimes it simply isn’t worth it.


End file.
